


share the shadows

by goldenrule



Series: Wranduin Week 2020 [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Betrayal, Established Relationship, M/M, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth, Wranduin Week 2020, a dash of violence there, a pinch of void here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenrule/pseuds/goldenrule
Summary: "There is but one hindrance left, Wrathion. Forfeit your life to me, quietly or no — it will be my hand that claims it regardless.”——For Day One of Wranduin Week 2020.
Relationships: Wrathion & Anduin Wrynn, Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Series: Wranduin Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914523
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	share the shadows

_ Stifling. _ That was the word the Black Prince settled upon, his blazing vermilion gaze darting about a chamber that was full to excess. If they were not gathering around that crystalline dwarf for their next commands, they were requesting visions be conjured so that they might prepare themselves for the upcoming battle — and oh, how many were eager to step forward and fight not among factions, but against a far greater threat.

Perhaps Wrathion would be remiss to lament the overcrowded sanctuary, then, but when the particularly pungent smell of dried gore and sweat wafted from a nearby party of adventurers, there was little he could do to prevent his nose from curling in disgust and allowing his mind to drift elsewhere.

Elsewhere, where there were fewer unwashed individuals and only one who smelled of a summer breeze. Whose smile could put the sun to envy and whose laughter could put even the most graceful hymn to shame. And those eyes—

—Were gazing at him now, twinkling with faint curiosity and mirth (surely at Wrathion’s expense for daydreaming). His taloned fingers nearly pierced the delicate scroll he held unfurled in his hands and mentally, he chastised himself for ever allowing his mind to slip and wander. Anduin Wrynn could truly be both a blessing and a curse. “Dear king,” he summoned the drawling words to save face, lips curling after his initial surprise, “and to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I suppose Stormwind City has relinquished you from your counsels for the day? My, how unexpected.”

“Not exactly, but I wanted to see for myself how much progress has been made here.” Anduin rolled on the balls of his feet, hands tucked behind his back as his gaze drifted in observance of Horde and Alliance champions alike. “You’ve been busy, it seems.”

“Yes, well, it is an Old God and not a  _ gnoll, _ my dear. There is much to be done.”

Something indiscernible flashed in Anduin’s eyes as they returned to Wrathion’s, and the dragon would be damned to wonder what, exactly, he ruminated on now. For all his skill in comprehension, Anduin was — and perhaps always would be — a fascinating puzzle to unravel and put together. Though what came next from the mortal was no far stretch of the imagination and much easier to decipher as his cerulean eyes traversed to a nearby gate.

“It’s meant to help bolster our minds against N’Zoth’s corruption, isn’t it?” Anduin nodded his golden head toward it, tresses of sunlight shifting in a messy frame that complimented him and made Wrathion’s heart stutter almost painfully in his chest. “I wonder what it would be like to experience it.”

The scroll in Wrathion’s hands crinkled shut with a snap. “No. Absolutely not.”

An indignant sound rolled from Anduin’s throat as though Wrathion personally affronted him with such a swift decline. He anticipated Anduin’s argument would be that he, too, should be adequately prepared in case N’Zoth set his gaze upon him, and truly, how could he argue against it? How deeply the Old God’s roots seeped into Azeroth, how deftly he placed malignant tumors and sowed corrupted seeds that he may reap the benefit when it was least expected, where it was least expected.

Oh, but Wrathion envisioned it as clearly as though he sat within the charming tavern once more: the sunshine prince of spring days, setting hope to blossom in its radiance wherever he may travel. A beacon of light even now, haggard as he was by the trials and tribulations of the crown which burdened him terribly.

That, the dragon concluded, was worth protecting from even the horrors of an illusory realm.

Wrathion found himself ensnared in that gaze again, one that peered with such scrutiny into his depths that Wrathion was certain his heart and mind were but a tome Anduin cracked open and dragged his finger against — and again, he pondered what those critical eyes gleaned when Anduin, who was telltale with his expressions as a standard, upheld an indiscernible countenance. “Because you fear I can’t handle it?”

He fished. They both know that wasn’t the case.

“No,” Anduin continued, his musing slow and calculative, “because you wish to shelter me from a potential truth.”

“You are dearest to my heart, Anduin,” Wrathion murmured with a sigh, the beginning throbs of a headache whispering at his temple. “And you will not be traversing Ny’alotha because you are dearest to the Alliance. For all that I respect — and occasionally detest — your curiosity, this is not the time nor the place to sate it.”

“So you aren’t denying it.”

How obstinate mortals could be! A tendril of smoke leaked from the thin sliver of Wrathion’s parted lips, for this was no argument he desired to have here, now, with the only privacy afforded to them being the space the adventurers so graciously provided when they realize who Wrathion’s newest visitor was. When the pair was younger, philosophical debates and the occasional heated argument were commonplace and often battled regardless of what unfortunate souls found themselves privy to it.

But philosophical debates on mogu and pandaren were a far cry from a matter much closer and more personal to him, and while he did not concern himself with Anduin’s capability — certainly, the priest could handle himself — the mere thought of subjecting him to a vision caused an unsettling ripple in Wrathion’s stomach.

The horrific visions were meant to twist and bend reality to its worst; if not for Anduin’s sake, then the desire to keep him from an equally horrific potential outcome was for Wrathion’s own.

A taloned finger reached forth, catching golden locks of hair and tucking them behind Anduin’s ear with practiced ease, lest he marred the soft flesh. The king’s gaze lost its sharpness, succumbing to the affectionate gesture. For a moment, Wrathion spied the battle between forfeit and determination; the desire to lean into the touch and the desire to shelter what spark of indignation ignited in his breast. “I do not,” Wrathion murmured, “but mistake me not, Anduin. The visions may not be this waking world, but the dangers that are presented are quite real.”

_ And were you to fall, could I stand to bear witness to it? _

A pregnant pause passed between them before blessedly, a subtle smile lifted the corners of Anduin’s lips. “Fine,” he relented, “but just know that I’ll surely ask again.”

“Oh, I know,” Wrathion laughed, a mixture of relief and muted aggravation. “You have never been one to accept an answer where it does not truly appeal to you.”

“I believe you find that charming.”

“Charming is one term for it, certainly.” Wrathion snorted, eliciting laughter of Anduin’s own. The conversation turned to something more lighthearted, to Wrathion’s contentment.

Though he couldn’t help but steal one more glance to the gateway, finding himself deep in thought.

* * *

That had been two moons ago, and it was the last they’d spoken of it.

While Wrathion resented it — surely, a solidarity shared between himself and Anduin — they were so often severed by their innumerable duties that it seemed nights shared together felt more akin to swift trysts, chased away at dawn’s light by the promise of councils and research to fill their days apart.

Thus he found himself lazily sailing over a wasteland decorated in a sea of ash, volcanic plumes breaking through the ground like jagged teeth and eclipsed only by the spectacular peak whose reach to kiss the sky seemed never ending. Under its stifling clouds of cinders and smoke did he dip, wings catching a drift of heat and grazing the underside of the veil which cloaked the Searing Gorge.

Chewing on his own thoughts, he took an elegant turn around Blackrock Mountain’s face, gliding to a halt in an open room carved into its side. He expected to be formally greeted as his claws scraped against the marble floor — yet it did not come. Something was amiss.

A smoky cloud filled with darting embers overcame Wrathion as he shifted into his mortal form, stepping through with a tilt of his head and a cautionary survey of the cavern’s entrance; two Blacktalons were always supposed to guard it, though instead they laid on the ground without so much as a spilled droplet of blood, bodies strewn and weapons cast aside.

He felt it before it registered, the hitch of breath in his throat as he closed the distance and knelt to inspect them. Their faces were contorted in pain, frozen as though they were denied the sweet release that death should have brought; more dreadful than that was the sickly violet tint to their complexions, their hollowed cheeks, and the crease of skin where it had been previously smooth.

No mortal blows were needed when the Void could take its due without a single strike.

Wrathion hissed, cursing under his breath as one Blacktalon’s cheek slipped from his careful grasp and rested against the cold stone of the floor once more. He would lament the price of their service to him later and have them buried, when he could afford it; for now, he ventured further through the hall, a mixture of hasty and cautious.

He had been careful never to settle roots in one space for too long, if only for the fact it would endanger himself and all he’d worked toward. Blackrock Mountain, however plagued as it was by the ghosts of his own dragonflight and their dastardly machinations, was key to fortifying the defense of Azeroth’s champions herself, thus he’d taken residence in its winding halls and spacious depths.

It was simple enough to set up protective enchantments around its many entrances, but Wrathion’s frown deepened when he sensed his own waning magic; the conclusion was the invasion of N’Zoth’s agents on a hunt to thwart his own plans.

Potent ones, at that.

Further trepidation only settled in his gut akin to a heavy stone when he entered a vast, circular room left relatively untouched. Absent were the multiple scents he expected to follow and the soft thumps of his boots against the stone floor slowed to a halt in his survey of the area. His kin laid, lifeless and untouched, in the center of a deep, molten pit. No stones were turned.

What, then—

A familiar scent, scarcely there, was caught just before the frigid knife of an ethereal blade slid its lone fang into his mind, its pressure bearing down on him with innumerable aching howls. Wrathion stumbled, snarled, inhuman teeth bared in defense and suffering alike as he just barely pinpointed the source and conjured licking flames in his palm.

His own attack did not connect, instead shooting past his assailant to create a molten dent against a stone pillar. The icy dagger sank back, whispering a brief reprieve — for that alone was it worthwhile, if only to give Wrathion a moment to clear his mind and affix his gaze on his foe.

Churning lava floes ignited a gleam along golden armor, the familiar maws of lions serving to spin Wrathion’s head in newfound shock and misery as the figure stepped forth from the shadows of an igneous crevice. His heart lurched in its cage, the bitter chill that struck through it far more painful than any incorporeal onslaught.

“You took quite a while,” Anduin murmured, voice a haunting sound. The light in his eyes that once danced warmly now seemed hardened, cold, peculiarly  _ wrong. _ It took every bit of Wrathion’s will not to step back, to refuse to acknowledge all that was unraveling before him. This could not be true. This, the worst potential outcome, the one he’d done his best to avoid at all costs...

In one hand, Shalamayne stood a testament to the truth: the elegant blade was none less beautiful, but in its center swirled a deep, violet mass of energy.

In the other, a leatherbound journal of well-worn pages that Wrathion recognized as his own. The chronicle of his adventures and his cumulative research.

“Anduin,” Wrathion all but bemoaned the name, agony laced in every syllable. “What has become of you?”

Anduin’s lips twisted in a cruel smile, and the harsh bark of laughter that escaped him bled no sunlight. “I have seen the truth.”

“You have seen a falsehood,” Wrathion shot back, taking a retreating step for each of Anduin’s advancing ones. “N’Zoth deals in possibilities and dark delusions, Anduin. This is not you. This is not your fate!”

At that, Anduin paused, canting his head as though considering the words. For a moment, it sparked a tiny fragment of hope in Wrathion that all was not lost, that he would not have to grieve that his most coveted treasure had been ripped from his grasp and contorted into nothing more than a calamitous shadow meant for the bidding of the Black Empire.

“I can amend this,” Wrathion continued, tremulously treading along this frayed thread of faith. Anduin –  _ his Anduin _ – was surely in there, somewhere. “Not all is lost. We can find some way to—”

“You wish to amend that which doesn’t wish to be.”

The cruelty embedded in the icy words pierced his fragmenting heart. Some minuscule, miserable part of Wrathion gave way to the rancorous irony that this, perhaps, was what he deserved for his previous missteps. Shalamayne’s tip dragged across the floor in Anduin’s newfound advance, its shrill cry resounding throughout the cavern.

Wrathion was losing ground as swiftly as he was losing faith.

“How should I relate to such a broken world? One filled with such needless strife and closed minds,” Anduin mused. “It is an endless cycle, and for what reason? The Light follows a plenary truth. There is one path deemed the right one, and all others are shunned. The Light defined one absolute path for me, Wrathion, and I stumbled along it like a hapless fawn. With the Void, the paths are limitless.”

The dragon closed his eyes fleetingly, reluctant to accept his futility. “Instead of turning Azeroth toward a better future, you would allow her to be swallowed whole by the shadows.”

Holding aloft Wrathion’s journal, Anduin laughed hollowly once more. “You’re incredibly perceptive,” he cooed, like a sickeningly sweet substance meant to tempt foolish insects to their doom. From his hand sprung dark, all-consuming fire, eating away at the pages until all that would be left were fruitless ashes. “But truly, this is the better future for Azeroth. There is but one hindrance left, Wrathion. Forfeit your life to me, quietly or no — it will be my hand that claims it regardless.”

A snarl erupted amidst a sudden cloud of dancing embers, great wingbeats dashing away the smoke to reveal the drake as he hovered, claws flexing imperceptibly. He understood better than to underestimate Anduin’s abilities, even twisted as they were. Unhinged and unbidden, he knew his lover — no, his foe — would stand formidably before him.

Further yet, as Wrathion felt the bubbling, raging heat of molten dragonfire in his chest, he knew he could not strike a mortal, decisive blow against Anduin.

The pinpricks began once more, assaulting his mind and coupled with such an intense cold that it felt obscenely hot. The Void seared, writing agony in every short stab as Anduin attempted to pierce what barricade Wrathion had built and fortified; so acute was it that Wrathion’s own retaliation fell short, spewed magma splattering against the ground at the monarch’s feet.

Thunderous, his draconic shriek echoed through the mountain as his wings tucked closer. Every nerve felt horribly frozen, locked under the chaotic hold of what sinister power Anduin manipulated to tuck Wrathion’s wings in and bring him crashing back down into the ground. The dull ache of the collision was insignificant to the excruciating torment of another presence in his mind and its barest whispers, the subtle voices speaking of relent.

Wrathion’s great head lashed as Anduin neared, fearsome fangs finding satisfaction in the whine of a plate armguard under his bite. It was short lived; Anduin’s cry dug deeply at his tender heart even now and a blast of vicious energy loosed him, head slamming against the stone floor. His chest heaved in his anguish, the mental onslaught a torment even as he vaguely spied a blade in the corner of his gaze.

Anduin had always been such a prodigious user of the Light. It should have served as no surprise that he could take its counterpart, woven from similar cloth, and wield it so proficiently.

“What a shame,” one voice rose above the others, familiar and foreign all in one breath. It was both a distant echo in a sea of whispers and an all-too-close crescendo rising above the rest. He felt the press of a boot against his side, Shalamayne’s honed tip searching out a gap between hardened onyx scales at his shoulder and the softer flesh it protected underneath. “You would have been one of N’Zoth’s greatest servants.”

_ Yield to it, _ the cacophony of hushed voices grew louder as narrow, golden slivers embraced the dark behind his eyelids. The cold kiss of steel disappeared from his shoulder only momentarily, he knew. To falter here… to fall here, to Anduin…

The agonizing throb of his head grew dull and aching, replaced with that of a piercing pain as Shalamayne plunged into his body.

_ Yield to it, Wrathion. _

_ Wrathion. _

_ Wra– on– _

“—Wrathion!”

Vermilion eyes blew open, fleeting around a room not encased in cavernous walls and not lit by rolling magma, but the filtering light leaking through royal blue drapes. His chest heaved painfully, panting as though there was no amount of oxygen that could fill his lungs to full and he scrambled to sit up, a deep ache the very marrow of his bones. Anduin, oddly unfocused despite his proximity, leaned closer, concern written plainly across his features. His golden brows knitted together as he extended a hand to hold Wrathion’s cheek.

Wrathion grimaced, turning his chin away from the gentle touch and willing his heartbeat to slow as his mind worked to assimilate his surroundings. It was… a nightmare? His sleep was always so shallow, his mind ever turning, his body ever prepared to face potential peril.

Ever rare was the prospect of any sort of dream, but even he had his limits, Wrathion surmised, finally catching his breath and meeting Anduin’s gaze.

“I–” He shook his head, raven curls falling loosely around his face, his jaw clenched so tightly he might have feared it would snap from the tension alone. “It was… so vivid…” The pain of it, the deep barb of thorns in his heart as it was all but wrenched from his body with Anduin’s chilling words. But here, in the sanctuary of the monarch’s room, Anduin’s cerulean eyes glimmered only with intense worry for his lover – nothing else. Futilely, Wrathion struggled to find the words to explain (and where to begin, how to begin to explain what loathsome torment he’d endured in his sleep); graciously, however, Anduin shook his head and tried once more to sweep his thumb over Wrathion’s cheekbone in a placating caress.

This time, Wrathion did not flee from it.

“I’m here,” the priest spoke softly, the undercurrent in his tone still sleep-heavy. “Whatever happened, it was all just a nightmare. You’re safe, Wrathion.”

At that, the tension that strained Wrathion’s muscles began to seep, dissipating with each soothing stroke of Anduin’s hand. How terribly his body ached in the aftermath; the deep sleep was not a blessing in any sense, it seemed. Anduin shifted closer, letting the silken blankets pool between them. He allowed his hands to be caught in Wrathion’s own, undoubtedly noting the way they trembled slightly.

And if he would otherwise comment that he’d never seen Wrathion in such a state, he didn’t now.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He pursued carefully, squeezing Wrathion’s hands. They were much cooler in comparison, and Wrathion welcomed it as he stole more air into his lungs to begin his recount of that which would surely haunt him for days. To his credit, Anduin kept a sufficiently passive demeanor, his gaze flickering at the details and the corners of his lips falling in a pensive frown.

It was met with silence by the end, both left to their pondering. Eventually, Anduin sighed and lifted their entwined hands, pressing a kiss against Wrathion’s knuckles. “Well, it was certainly only a nightmare,” he murmured. “You know I could never do that to you. Not as I am, anyway.”

“I know.” Anduin Wrynn might not have found himself capable of such a horrific deed, but should N’Zoth carefully twine his heartstrings with darker shadows? The mere thought wracked Wrathion with a small shudder.

_ The Light defined one absolute path for me, Wrathion, and I stumbled along it like a hapless fawn. With the Void, the paths are limitless. _

“Perhaps,” Wrathion started, pacing his words slowly, “it would not be a terrible idea to fortify your mind against N’Zoth’s corruption — should it ever come to that.” It was a matter he had hoped wouldn’t need to be addressed, yet in the wake of what terrors had haunted his sleep, no longer could he turn a blind eye to the prospect.

Anduin chuckled at that, leaning in to claim a kiss before he clambered out of bed. Were it any other time, Wrathion would have reveled in the opportunity to let his gaze wander leisurely, drinking in the sight of skin before it was inevitably tucked away under clothing. “If this is the closest I get to a regretful admission, I’ll take it.” He ignored the scowl he earned for the tease, as he was wont to do, pulling on and lacing his boots instead. “I’ll see if I can get some breakfast brought to us. We slept a little late; I’m certain Genn is reciting an admonishment in his head as we speak.”

“When is he not?” Wrathion grumbled, but bid Anduin farewell nonetheless as the king ventured forth for sustenance. He sighed in his newfound solitude, rolling his shoulders and – ah – finding himself perplexed when his right one protested in great agony.

With a frown, his hand grazed over the warm skin of his shoulder, pausing only when his nail scraped against an uneven surface. It elicited a pained hiss, an uncomfortably building apprehension warranting a pause before his fingertips tentatively quested over the space again, finding rugged skin surrounding a deeper valley — a laceration that spanned a large expanse of his shoulder blade, matching the slim width of a familiar sword.

**Author's Note:**

> Making Anduin the bad guy was rough, but it was also so much fun to challenge myself to write it! I hope the twists were as enjoyable to read as they were to write!
> 
> Thank you to the lovely [FlowerMutt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowerMutt) for reading over this and helping to correct any mistakes that were spotted, and thank you to the creator(s?) of this wonderful event! ♥


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